


night terrors

by floaromas



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:42:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floaromas/pseuds/floaromas
Summary: he has nightmares every night."you are an assassin that saves."





	night terrors

**Author's Note:**

> the characters featured in this work are both my Warden and Inquisitor, but I removed their names to hopefully make this story more inclusive...I apologize if they are not the same as other peoples' characters, but I found their stories to be too fun to not share :)

It was due to Leliana’s persistence.  
No, not entirely true. I cannot give her all the credit. It was her letter that made me fly from my roost. But it was only because of the promise that I would see my Warden again.  
I had hardly grabbed hold of the parcel before hungrily examining it, devouring each letter like some half-starved scavenger.  
“The Warden is at Skyhold.”  
A remarkable fortress, to be sure. Something that would have been worth a pretty penny, if not a couple felled armies, had the Inquisitor not marched right up to it and claimed it as his own.  
Inquisitor. Herald of Andraste. Whatever fancy title or cap he wore.  
In the end he was an elf like me. Like my Warden. There was comfort in that.

When I see him again I swear I fall in love all over again. When I tell him that later he just smiles.  
“You always say that.” But it’s true.  
No matter how many times we meet, it is like the first time. How did I become such a sap? (I blame him).

There is a mage in the Inquisition known as Dorian. He is quick, witty, stubborn, and, most importantly, has impressive facial hair. He is the Inquisitor’s lover.  
How to know? Well, there are always rumors and stories if one knows where to look. But they are not shy about their relationship. Stealing kisses whenever they can, exchanging glances and smiles when there are important matters concerning Mages and Templars at hand.  
Dorian reads. Extensively. I often find him in the library, and he does quite love to chat my ear off about whatever topic he’s occupied with at the moment. I think he enjoys having someone from Antiva nearby. An Antivan Crow, a Tevinter mage. Dubious characters from remarkably dubious countries.  
One day I catch him reading of night terrors. Visions from the Fade. I had to pick his brain a bit.  
“I’m trying to help the Inquisitor,” he admits. “He has nightmares every night. He can see them, the spirits that intend to drag him back to the Rift.”  
“The Warden has nightmares, too,” I muse.  
Dorian is considerate enough not to ask about them.

The dreams have gotten worse.  
It is...the Blight. This fabricated Blight Corypheus has set into motion. It was not supposed to happen now, but here is the Archdemon and he screams and roars so loudly that it echoes in the Warden’s head. He says the voices and wails and scent of blood are all so overwhelming and real that it could swallow him whole.  
He cries. I hold him and he grips onto me for dear life, as if I am his anchor, his one true, knowable thing that can protect him. Sometimes the visions leave him weak, too terrified to rise from his bed. I stay with him and hold his hand and stroke his hair.  
I get strange looks sometimes. I can only imagine what they say around Skyhold. Poor little, weak Warden. Counting on his bloodied Crow.  
They can suck a nug. They can’t understand. How could they?  
I asked Leliana if I could pick off a few of them. She didn’t smile. She told me not to make such jokes. I’m not entirely sure I was joking.

The Warden’s hands tremble horribly. I constantly hold them, even during the important military meetings that seem to drone on and on forever.  
His hands feel so small and delicate. It’s hard to believe they once slayed an Archdemon.

“You’re an assassin, too?”  
“Hmm?...Yes.”  
“But you help the Warden.”  
“I do.”  
“...I can hear it, you know. When he screams. He sees terrible things, the flames of war, the gaping hole of the world swallowed whole.”  
“I know.”  
“But he thinks of you. Often. I can hear that, too.”  
“Haha...is that so?”  
“The smell of leather boots. A cocky grin. Warm, warm hands, they tell me it’s alright. An earring, a token.” Cole smiles. “You help him a lot.”  
“I do my best.”  
“So you’re an assassin that helps, too.”  
“I suppose you could say that.”

Dorian says he wants to help us find a cure. Some way to remove the Darkspawn blood.  
“If that can be done, perhaps the dreams will stop.”  
I tell him we have been trying for years. Traveling all about Thedas, frantically searching for a cure.  
“...He is growing older, isn’t he?” Dorian asks, his eyes searching my features carefully.  
My throat goes dry. Yes, he is now twenty-five, I want to say. Thirty is the age, that’s the end. And I don’t know what to do, I am so selfish. I can’t imagine a life without him and my gods, by the Maker, someone like me who used to toss people away as if they were sacks of shit now cannot bear to be alone.  
I cannot imagine a life without him.  
But all I say is “Yes. He is getting older.”

Dorian has an experiment. “Just a little test,” he says with a wry smile.  
He just wants to watch the Warden experience his nightmares. I cannot be present, he says. It must be a pure, natural reaction.  
I am hesitant but the Warden is so confident and happy that I don't have the nerves to stop him.  
I wait outside his room that night. The screaming starts and I try to ignore it. I whistle at the crows perched in the rafters. They caw back gently.  
Then the sobbing begins. This is harder to ignore, but I must. But then I listen closer and he's sobbing my name - my name. In between gasps and wheezes I can hear it.  
“Zevran. Zevran.”  
I race inside. Dorian looks angry, but I don't care. I take the Warden in my arms and cradle and hush him. He holds onto my clothes for dear life.  
“They killed you,” he sobs. “And I couldn't save you.”  
“Who killed me?”  
He just keeps crying. I already know the answer. 

The Inquisitor is fun. He's Dalish and has no time for the “Maker chose you to be a hero” nonsense. He knows how to relax.  
He loves to chat with the Warden. Never before has he met a city elf, he says. Especially not one raised in the Circle.  
The Warden always smiles and patiently answers his question. He seems so serene then, so wise beyond his years.  
His years.  
What did I do to deserve him?

“I can feel the Fade on him.”  
“That so?”  
“Does he know the spirits?”  
“Yes, he...” Hesitation. “He speaks of them often. They comfort him.”  
A small smile. I have never seen Solas smile.  
“Then you need not be afraid. They will care for him when it is his time.”  
“I don't want it to be his time.”  
“...I'm sorry.”  
“I...it won't be his time. Not until he's old and ready and -”  
“I was only saying this to help you.”  
“I don't feel any better.”

I told the Warden what Solas said. He got really quiet, had this pensive look in his eyes.  
Tired. So tired.  
“Does it make you feel better?” he asks softly.  
Lump in the throat. “No.” I take his hand in my own. “You?”  
“...A little.”  
It's snowing. We sit on the stone steps outside the fortress and gaze out at the mountains, the vast, terrible world that somehow foils us at every turn.  
But it is so beautiful.  
“You'll stay, right?” he whispers. “Until the end?”  
I kiss his cheeks. They are salty and cold.  
“Of course I will. Until the end and after, amor.”


End file.
